Damascene Moment
by MaggieMay19
Summary: Patrick Jane is fifteen, working the Midwest carnival circuit with his dad. All his life he's known that you're either with the Show or you're a mark, a sucker. Today for the first time something happens to challenge that point of view...
1. Chapter 1

It was a hot day, but cool inside the city museum. It was take-down and move day for the whole carnival, which always meant an afternoon off for Patrick Jane and his dad Alex. They'd pack up the show tent early but would wait and set off with the main convoy, accompanying the big rides and usually driving overnight to the new showground. Time off was one of the perks of being a showman rather than crew. Patrick usually took a bus to the local city museum or library: Alex hadn't accompanied him since he was around nine years old.

Patrick walked slowly to the end of the top floor gallery, taking around a minute to really look at the subject matter, composition and brushwork of each painting without using any words in his head to describe it. He thought of it as taking a visual representation of the image's component parts, which could then be inserted into his memory palace along with the title and artist's name from the painting's label: pictures without descriptive words, then adding labels to help reference the picture, all neatly hung in the various locations in his memory palace. It was a system he was still developing, though he was already very pleased with how well it was working. It worked even better on simpler images such as maps and plans, which had more obvious monetising potential, but he enjoyed the challenge of remembering entire works of art.

_Not that this lot is worth remembering_ he thought to himself as he worked his way past the paintings. This was a gallery of mostly nineteenth century art by minor or local artists, definitely not to his taste: bowls of fruit, favourite livestock, domestic scenes. Barely more interesting than remembering playing cards. Less lucrative… That brought his thoughts back to his best friend, Angela. She was with the show too, clever and witty with a dry sense of humor but an overdeveloped sense of morality. She was mad with him at the moment for being so obsessed with money. He wondered if it would help telling her the money was just a way to keep score, his real obsession was with being the smartest guy in the room – any room. Would she find that better or worse? Worse, he decided. If I'm the smartest guy then everyone else in the room is a sucker, a mark. That was at the heart of her objection to the carnie life. 'Not everyone out there should be a mark,' she'd yelled at him and Danny. 'You should treat people with respect!' _Well, yes, I'd never hook a mark if I had a disrespectful attitude._

He reached the end of the gallery and turned the corner. He had been expecting another gallery, but it was a dead end. It took less than a second for his eyes to sweep round a short stretch of corridor, abruptly blocked off by a partition wall containing a door marked 'Authorised Personnel Only'. To the right was an alcove with a large mountainous landscape in it: opposite was a matching alcove containing a padded bench and a trash can. He guessed this was where the Authorised Personnel came to eat their sandwiches at lunchtime and look at what was undoubtedly the best painting in their collection: a Durand, maybe, or a Cole. He would have smiled at the idea of the curators hanging it for their own benefit, in their break area, except there was a girl sitting on the bench opposite gazing over at the painting.

Patrick spent another couple of seconds looking her over. She was a little older than him, sixteen or seventeen maybe, shorter and a little chubby, sitting with her arms and legs tightly crossed. He swiftly took in everything he could. Well worn shoes, patched jeans, a slightly-too-small long-sleeved shirt tied at the waist rather than buttoned, no missing buttons but one was mis-matched in some way, he'd come back to that. A faded plain dark t-shirt, no make-up but clean long light brown hair, carefully braided in a French plait. Ah, there it was: the third shirt button down was a good colour match, but it had four holes while the others had just two. The girl was now looking steadily at him as he concluded she didn't have a mom or older sister, she might be in the system but no, in his experience foster parents at least made sure kids in their care had clothes that fit, even if they got them from the Goodwill store. This girl didn't have a social worker. She would have no money on her, not even enough in small change to buy them both a soda at the cafe. He carefully arranged his face into an apologetic smile, as if he was sorry to have interrupted. Maybe he couldn't con a drink out of her but she could still be useful practice. She was obviously wary and distrustful, so he would get her to tell him a secret. Satisfied with his observations and his conclusions, Patrick looked into her eyes for the first time.

'Hi,' he said lightly, while holding her gaze. 'I, uh, didn't know anyone was here.'

He watched her expression closely while the girl scanned behind him, briefly glanced back into his face then lowered her eyes and stared resolutely at the floor. Her eyes had been a surprisingly pale green colour with a dark ring round the outside of the iris, slightly bloodshot. She had looked at him with resentment but also with a much shrewder look than he had been expecting. _She's been crying, no wonder she's feeling resentful, she's embarrassed about it and hoping I won't notice. If I can steer her past that awkwardness she'll open up like a flower. I'll get her secret – boyfriend trouble? – and be out of here in no time_. His instincts said there was something else going on here. He must have seen something he hadn't yet been able to identify. _Probably not run of the mill boyfriend trouble_, he reflected.

'Well, _I'm_ here.' Her voice surprised him and he froze for an instant. She was british! When he didn't make any reply she added, 'I'm not an exhibit, you know!' She had raised her eyes from the floor to glare at him. At her words he realised he was still staring at her in surprise. People didn't surprise him very often nowadays, he had always been good at cold reading and now he was becoming very fast too. What he'd found so incongruous was that her accent hadn't been the rural Midwest trailer-trash he'd expected. It reminded him of the Beatles; where had they come from again?

'British!' He found himself murmuring the word before he could stop himself and knew his surprise was showing on his face too. _This isn't how it's meant to go! I should be in control here!_ Thinking fast, he decided to seem embarrassed too. He would let her see they had something in common, that they were both feeling uncomfortable about their encounter. Then he'd turn on the charm as he turned to leave, get her to call him back. Make her feel like she's calling the shots.

She was still reacting to his words. 'Wow, that's brilliant, Sherlock! I never realised I was _British_.' Her voice dripped with sarcasm and her expression had changed to one of disdain. He smiled inwardly. That had been witty, and pretty quick. And he liked the crack about Sherlock Holmes– he'd certainly enjoyed the books. Getting this girl to trust him might be more of a challenge than he had thought. Practice was always fun, but this could be _fun_.

Patrick contrived to look abashed – it wasn't something he had ever genuinely felt, he knew his fake look wasn't nearly as good as he wanted it to be – and quickly looked down at his feet. 'I'm sorry. You want to be alone, and here I am spouting stupid comments.' He looked back into her eyes, smiling, and held her gaze. It was a classic flirting move, one which had been successful for him more times than he could count, and he was gratified to see her start to blush. He softened his voice a little as he said 'I really didn't mean to intrude,' then raised his eyebrows in slight enquiry as he lowered his voice to a murmur to say 'Would you like me to leave?' He wanted her to believe he really would prefer to stay.

Her expression told him everything he wanted to know. She was still wary, ashamed about her outburst but flattered by his attention. As she said nothing, and the moment extended, he gave her a carefully-crafted rueful half-smile, holding her eyes in his for way too long. _Not very pretty but she'd improve with just a little make-up. Her eyes are definitely her best feature, very unusual colour._ Then he broke away first, glancing down at his shoes before putting his hands in his pockets and slowly starting to turn away. _Would it be too much if I drop my shoulders dejectedly when I move off?_ he thought, and immediately the answer came back _Yes. This girl would think I was mocking her._

After two steps she still hadn't said anything. _Dammit, she should be calling me back by now!_ Three more would take him out of sight around the corner. Still hearing nothing from the girl he decided to move things along – he'd turn back and offer her the paper napkin he'd stolen earlier from the diner on the corner of Third and Spencer, as though he'd just found it in his pocket. _Practical sympathy, not condescending pity, that's what I'm aiming for_, he thought. _If she takes it she'll find it harder to make me go away._

Patrick had turned his back to the girl on the bench but he stopped walking, span around and started to lift his hands out of his pockets in one swift movement. She had been watching him leave and as he turned back – to his horror – she flinched away from him with an expression of pure terror briefly flitting crossing her face. She hadn't just started in surprise at his sudden movement. She had been genuinely frightened, involuntarily cringing away from him and gasping quietly as though doing so had caused her some discomfort. He froze, still only half turned towards her, his hands still in his pockets and regarded her steadily looking for clues as to what had just happened. Her expression was transforming into a defiant look of pure bravado though the fear hadn't entirely faded from her eyes. He could see clearly now that her tightly-crossed arms were slightly lopsided: she was pressing her left arm to her ribs. Now the long-sleeved shirt and jeans on such a warm day made sense too. _That's what I must have seen earlier, _he thought_. Not run-of-the-mill boyfriend trouble. She hasn't been dumped by some guy. She's been beaten up by him._


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick Jane was dully surprised that he felt slightly sick at the sight of this girl cringing from him as though she expected another beating. He didn't know her, she was just practice to him, just some townie mark, why did he feel anything? But he couldn't stop himself feeling a little shocked: he had never seen another person flinch away from him like that. She had not merely been afraid he might hit her, for a fleeting moment she had been certain that he would. Patrick hated violence, had never hit anyone in his life. The idea that someone could be afraid of him like that was a little sickening. Inside his head he shouted to himself, _I am not that guy!_

Out loud he found himself saying, 'Whoa! It's okay, it's okay,' and wondered why he said it, whether he was reassuring her or himself. _Stay focused,_ he told himself. _She's a victim but so what? Everyone's a victim of something. She's not _my_ victim._

Slowly, gently, he lifted his hand out of his pocket and extended it, showing her the napkin. 'I just thought you could use one of these.' His mind raced. Up to now he had found her sharp words and acid manner mildly amusing. Some other guy had been so enraged that he'd used her as a punching bag. _Probably not as a football,_ he reflected. _If that guy had knocked her to the floor and kicked her then she'd be in the Emergency Room rather than sitting in a museum._ The phrase 'Not _my_ victim' drifted across his mind again. She was his current mark, though, even if she was only practice. _Still, she looked like someone who would benefit from opening up a little, _he reflected. _It wouldn't be victimising her, getting this secret out of her. It was doing her a favour really, practically therapy._ Keeping his movements slow, he crossed the floor and offered her the napkin.

'Here. My name's Paddy. Short for Patrick,' he added.

A couple of embarrassed tears had run down her cheeks. As she took the napkin silently and wiped her face, he settled down at the far end of the bench, crossing his legs, spreading his arm casually along the back towards her and contriving to look utterly relaxed. _Confidence,_ he thought to himself as he did this_. I'm no longer sure I want to open this particular can of worms. When in doubt, look confident._ _Just act like I belong here,_ he told himself._ She's taken the napkin from me, she will start to relax._

He watched her face as she took a deep breath that made her wince very slightly, slowly breathed out and said 'Lizzy. Short for Elizabeth.' He watched her breathe in and out again, shallower, calming herself without any obvious signs of discomfort.

'Nice to meet you, Lizzy short for Elizabeth,' he smiled.

Patrick told himself again that getting a secret out of her wouldn't be victimising her, then wondered again why he had felt the need to keep telling himself that. He considered his next move. If he started asking questions right away she'd clam up. She still looked wary, even if she had accepted the napkin. He decided to take it slow. She should say something next, not him, and they should talk about some neutral subject for a while. When she says something like 'you're easy to talk to' he can start steering the conversation back to her.

Lizzy wiped her eyes again and pocketed the half-used napkin before turning to face Patrick. She didn't meet his eyes as she said, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that was rude. I get that a lot, the whole British thing, y'know, and I just… reacted to it.' She looked back towards the painting. _Not where I want to go yet,_ he thought while he smiled and shook his head to imply that it was nothing, all forgotten. _Her own embarrassment is all she can think of at the moment. She's dreading me asking what the matter is. Neutral subject first. We'll get onto her later._ He made a small gesture toward the painting.

'Your favourite?'

'It's by Cole,' she nodded absently.

OK, thought Patrick, now isn't the time to show off what I know about paintings. He looked at it too, and tried to see what the artist wanted him to. 'It looks like a very calm place to be,' he improvised. 'Just the mountains and the river flowing along, always changing but always the same.'

'Mm hmm.' She replied, still staring at the painting but giving the impression her mind was elsewhere. This was confirmed when she suddenly turned to him.

'I really am sorry. I just wasn't expecting anyone to find me here like this, that's all.' Lizzy looked slightly more relaxed, less wary. 'Hey, how'd you like to see something cool?'

_This is her being grateful I haven't asked what the matter is_, he guessed.

'Yeah, sure,' he replied lightly. I'll see whatever it is, be suitably impressed, then we can start talking about her.

Patrick kept his face carefully neutral and made sure he walked half a step behind as they headed back past the paintings he had memorised earlier.

'So… What's this cool thing?' he asked, working to keep the conversation flowing but also wanting to see how she reacted to a direct question.

'You'll see', she replied. _Ah, evasive,_ he thought.

'Well at least tell me how far it is,' he said with a smile in his voice. She had paused at the top of the stairs, he gestured politely that she should go first.

'Just down one flight, in the mineral gallery.' She stopped on the stair to turn and look at him. 'Have you already been through the museum?' she asked. Uncertainty was written on her face now.

'No,' he lied. 'I started on the top floor, thought I'd work my way down rather than up.'

She nodded absently as they carried on to the bottom of the flight of stairs and into the gallery below.

'So, minerals…' he started.

'I know, a bunch of dumb rocks, right? But there is this one cool thing, I promise you. Right there.' She flourished her right hand at the display with a childish grin on her face, her left arm still clamped to her side.

Patrick found the combination of American words and her uncompromisingly British accent rather charming, the overall effect quite endearing. _Focus,_ he told himself. _I'm practising here._ Shooting her a mildly sceptical look, he bent over the case. Near the middle was a large clear crystal with a card behind it containing the words DOUBLE REFRACTION.

'Now look from down here,' she said, indicating a special window in the front of the display case at kid height. Glancing back at her he wondered if this was some kind of joke but he saw no guile in her face. Hunkering down he looked through the window and saw the words through the crystal. It looked as if they had been printed twice on the card, not once. He stood up.

'You see the words twice if you look through the crystal,' he smiled at her. 'Double refraction.'

'Double refraction,' she agreed, nodding. The moment their eyes met they both burst out laughing at how unimpressive the 'cool thing' had turned out to be.


	3. Chapter 3

'Oooh, oh,' Lizzy gasped straight away, clutching her left side with her right hand. _Laughing, not a good idea with bruised ribs _thought Patrick. Time to move things along again. Guiding her to the nearest bench without actually touching her arm, he gently sat her down, crouched in front of her and lightly rested one hand on the bench beside her. _Now I have you cornered. You won't be able to walk away without invading my personal space. We've just shared a moment, let's hear what you have to say._

'I had cracked ribs once,' Patrick lied. 'Fell over a barrier at the County Fair. Had to stay in bed for a week.' He raised his eyebrows slightly in a mildly quizzical manner.

'Is it that obvious?' Lizzy asked. _More evasion_, thought Patrick. _Let's close this deal._

'That some guy beat you up? Hell yeah. That you don't want anyone to know? Sure, that much is obvious.' He could tell that Lizzy had been expecting him to ask what happened. He could see confusion and uncertainty flit across her face. _That's it,_ he thought, _now she's a little off balance I'll get her to tell me her plan. She's self-contained and smart enough to have made a plan to get back at this guy, she won't want to tell it to anyone but I'll make her tell me. Keep her off balance and she'll talk to me. _He put a serious expression on his face.

'What I want to know is, what you're gonna do about it. You got a plan, right? You're not just gonna let it happen and do nothing. You've got a plan, I know you have. I can help. Tell me your plan, I can help.'

'Why would you help?' The bitterness was back in her voice now. 'Why would a guy like you want to help someone like me? We just met. I don't know you. You could be anyone.'

_OK,_ thought Patrick, _she's bright enough not to trust me yet but she doesn't realise she's just confirmed she has a plan. I can use that 'guy like you' crack. I can open up a crack like that. A guy could take offence at a crack like that._

'A guy like me?' He said it mildly and kept his face blank.

'Good looking boys are only ever nice to rich girls.' She said it flatly, hesitantly and blushed as she said it. '_All_ guys are only ever nice to rich girls. Or pretty ones maybe. Carny guys aren't nice to any girls, period. It's why the girls like them so much. Every girl loves a bad boy.'

She knows I'm from the carnival! Alarm bells started going off in his head and he felt suddenly vulnerable. Was this the time to cut and run? _I'm a Carny alone in town, and she can pick me out of a lineup for any crime they care to pin on me._ The phrase 'good looking' floated up in his mind and he fleetingly felt flattered. _Maybe I don't need to run just yet. Maybe I can use that…_

'You said "guys like me,"' he repeated, still keeping his voice mild. She shrank away from him a little, and the fear reappeared in her eyes. The realisation dawned that she still found him threatening, crouched in front of her like this. _Have I gone too far too fast?_

'I didn't mean anything bad!' Lizzy blurted out. 'You're – you look – you know. You look nice,' she finished lamely, blushing even harder.

'Thank you.' He smiled into her eyes as he said it, then continued in his sincerest tone, 'Do you really think so? A girl's never said that to me before.' Before he could stop himself the barefaced nature of this lie turned his face into a grin so he continued, 'I'm flattered,' to cover it up and help him get his features back under control. Still smiling to himself he moved away sideways to sit on the bench, closer than he had before but not right next to her. _She'd still have to push past to get away,_ he thought, _but if I sit here she won't feel so trapped, that should be enough to put her more at ease._

'I like to think I'm a nice guy though, whatever I might look like. Nice guys are good to _all_ girls.' This got a brief smile from her. _That's better_, he thought, and lowered his voice.

'Was the guy who hit you good looking?'

'No, it's not like that, he's…' she tailed off.

'Family,' Patrick concluded for her. Lizzy nodded miserably. _Damn damn damn! That means her plan isn't an amusing kind of revenge against some spotty local hoodlum. It's escape._

'Kind of. Not exactly. It's complicated.' Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. 'He's my stepfather. He's a cop.' More warnings flashed in his head. Family. Complicated. _Cop, _for chrissakes! That made a kind of sense. A cop would know how to hit someone without leaving Emergency Room damage. A cop, especially a dirty cop, one prepared to beat up his stepdaughter, would have the juice both inside and outside the law to make it very hard for her to get away without help. His mind leapt to conclusions. _She knows I'm with the carnival. That's her plan. She wants to run away with us, but she's under age. Nothing good can come of bringing that kind of mess back to the Fairground if she's running from a cop._

He was sure, now, that he didn't want to hear her explain any sad, sorry little plan she could possibly have made. _It's time to cut my losses and go. It's technically a win anyway: I know what her plan is without her having to tell me. Wasn't as much fun as I thought she'd be. How do I get out of this as cleanly as possible? I don't want her yelling after me or following me back to the Fairground._

As he hesitated, he realised what he had just thought. A second wave of nausea swept him, worse than when she'd cringed in terror away from him earlier. _I am that guy, _he thought._ I didn't use my fists but I beat her just as thoroughly using words and tricks. I won. That was all that mattered to me. My first thought was how to abandon her without complications. My first feeling was disappointment that beating an already beaten-up girl wasn't more entertaining. _

_Who am I? How did I get to be like this?_

'I guess you need to be somewhere else now.' Her voice was still small, defeated, her words oddly formal as though they had come to the end of an appointment. She'd been watching him closely, did it show so clearly on his face he wondered? Patrick still felt in shock. Not only had he won, she clearly knew she had _lost_. She might not have known he had been playing a game but she understood this last admission of hers had ended it, badly, for her.

'It's because he's a cop, isn't it?' she continued. 'Nice guys don't pick fights with cops. No-one believes you when you say it was a cop. Cops can't possibly be bad guys, can they?' She no longer sounded bitter, just resigned and hopeless. He had just been idly looking to practise his cold reading, maybe have a little fun. She had been desperate, hoping to escape from a home where she was beaten.

Patrick made up his mind in that instant. Angela Ruskin had been right all along and he had been wrong, his dad was wrong. Not everyone on the outside had to be a mark. He never would stop wanting to be the smartest guy in the room but he didn't always have to use it like violent people used their fists. Again he couldn't stop a grin from spreading over his face.


	4. Chapter 4

'Lizzy, listen. You're right,' Patrick began. 'A nice guy can't help you. I can help though. I'm… devious, too devious really to be a nice guy but that's why I can help you. Tell me your plan so far.'

'What? I – I don't – '

'Never mind. Your plan was to run away to the Carnival. It's a good plan, but not good enough, not if you're running from a cop. Cops watch carnivals, you know? And cops gossip. We're heading to Springfield next, still in Missouri, any Joplin cop who shows up on the Springfield showground won't have much of a problem taking you back. Taking you away in the first place could cause a whole lot of trouble for whoever you go with. Now you might be able to persuade one of the crewmen to take you with him anyway but… you might not like what he'd want you to do in return. You understand me? You don't get anything for nothing.' Lizzy nodded with a grimace.

'You need to have somewhere better to run to. So here it is. You run to Florida, to the Showman's Association in Gibsonton. Old Carnys retire to Gibsonton and everyone east of Tulsa at the end of the season overwinters there. You get there, ask around for work and mention you spent some time on the Midwest circuit working for the Ruskins, you made friends with Angela and Danny Ruskin. Their family runs big iron – the big rides, y'know? That'll help you gain their trust and someone you meet down there will probably have some work for you, or know someone who does. They won't be too hung up about your age or social security number, and they won't turn in one of their own to the law. You can do stuff, cooking and cleaning, waitressing, right? You could keep your head down and work there for a year or so, couldn't you? Till you hit 18?'

'What? Yes, I can – '

'And you've got some money stashed away somewhere, yes? Enough to buy a few bus tickets?

'What? I'm not going to – '

'Good. So here's what you do. You buy a local bus ticket to Pittsburgh, leave tonight because the carnival's leaving tonight, with any luck your cop will assume you went with us and go off on a wild goose chase, give you a head start. Pittsburgh gets you over the state line, fast. The Joplin bus office won't have any idea it isn't your final destination. Crossing the State line will slow things down for your cop, unless he's a Fed or a Marshal. Is he a Fed or a Marshal?

'What? No, he's a traffic cop, but –'

Right. Then once you're in Pittsburgh, buy a wig and glasses and get a ticket on the first bus to Oklahoma City. He might know who to ask in Joplin to find out if you bought a disguise, but hopefully he won't know where to go in Pittsburgh without asking around. That'll slow him down even more. Get a different wig and sunglasses in Oklahoma City, or dye your hair or something, then buy your Greyhound ticket to Tampa. Gibsonton's not far from Tampa, and the Greyhound from Oklahoma City runs through Arkansas, not Missouri. Bypass Missouri and I think you'll be fine, you'll be in Gibsonton in two, three days, tops. Work in Gibsonton and no-one will ask awkward questions. Once you're eighteen, once you're an adult, you won't have to worry about him anymore. Got that?

'What? Yes I think –'

'Tell me where you're heading.'

'The Showman's Association in Gibsonton, via Pittsburgh, Oklahoma City and Tampa.'

'Which show did you travel with?'

'The Ruskins, I made friends with Angela and Donny.'

'Danny. You only worked with the show for a couple of weeks, though. No-one will believe you worked a show for any longer than that. Tell them the local heat got turned up and Pops Ruskin sent you to Gibsonton to lay low and find work. Never say the word "Carny" again in your whole life. Got that?

'Got it. It's a good plan.' She was grinning now.

'You, uh, got the money to do all that?' Patrick asked, eyeing her uncertainly.

'I can get it,' she grinned. That made him uneasy. He hoped she wasn't planning to steal from the cop.

'How? No, don't tell me. If it's illegal just make sure you cover your tracks. Don't mention me, ever, to anyone, especially if you get caught. This is _your_ plan. And leave a note for your cop so he knows you're leaving of your own free will.'

Suddenly Lizzy looked serious. 'Paddy, why are you doing this'? she asked.

'I'm not doing anything, you are. I'm just making suggestions.' Lizzy shook her head.

'That's not an answer,' she persisted. 'You turn up, you act like you're all interested in me, you tell me you like to think of yourself as a good guy even though you then say you're not, and finally you produce this plan out of thin air. You said yourself you don't get something for nothing. What's going on?'

_What is going on_, Patrick wondered. Out loud he said, 'I was interested in you. Lots of guys are going to like you, Lizzy, I promise. As for me, well… I think I just realised that I'm in love with someone. I've known her my whole life and we've argued about what's right and wrong since we were little kids. Meeting you made me realise that all this time she was right and I was wrong and I think I love her for that.'

Lizzy shook her head. 'I don't understand anything you just said,' she said.

'Well let's just say I didn't intend to help you at first, then I realised that I could help out if I wanted. You know that girl I just mentioned? She says it's our actions that tell us who we are.' _That's something Angela says all the time. I never really understood what she meant until now. '_If I'm not quite good enough to be a good guy, at least I don't have to act like one of the bad ones.' Patrick was silent for a moment, thinking about Angela. _It's true, I love her, that is how I feel. I wonder how she feels about me? I can see now I was becoming someone I don't much like. I've been doing… things that aren't so good. Can she see that too? Maybe I can learn to be a better person. Maybe she could teach me._ Aloud he said, 'Try to keep your accent, it's cute, and always remember you deserve to date good guys. Make sure you learn how to pick them out of a crowd. Now it's my turn to ask a question. How did you know I was with the Show?'

Lizzy smiled. 'I saw you arrive a week ago. You were looking out of the window of a motorhome in the middle of a convoy of carnival trucks heading towards the Fairground. You drove past the High School entrance when school ended. All the girls were looking at the guys in the trucks and, well, we all noticed you.' She was blushing again. 'You're the kind of boy that gets noticed by girls.'

Patrick chuckled. 'Very flattering.' _All the girls? Really? Yesterday that would have been more than enough but now all I want to find out is whether I have that effect on just one girl. I want her to notice me._

'Lizzy? Good luck.' He watched her walk away, his mind full of thoughts of Angela.


End file.
